A mirrored history:

It couldn't have appeared that he'd made no attempts.

The walls of his cuts stoop limp in ravishing ferocity,

Raw and swollen.

And the eyes,

Masked with red rust,

Refused to belay into wonderland.

Even so,

Whispering into the depths of the bones marrow,

The bitter rain should come with no mercy.

But,

As any string should,

It ignores its destiny,

And tumbles and knots,

And winds and tangles.

A believable plot tides from the inconsistency of life,

Its fate driven merely by the rise and fall of the sea.

And so it should’ve been expected.

She thrust the papers from the terrace with such force that he was firmly confident in the remembering of this scenario in later years of his life with vivid description.